


Errand Boy

by quaffanddoff



Category: 30 Rock
Genre: Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, Implied Sexual Content, Kinda Dark, M/M, Obedience, Power Imbalance, Service Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29329404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quaffanddoff/pseuds/quaffanddoff
Summary: Kenneth’s heart was racing and his knees were near buckling. Finally alone, he collapsed into a chair at the writers’ table to catch his breath. Right on cue, he felt his company-issued pager buzz on his belt. He held it up with great trepidation, knowing what message he was about to see:I need you. Come to my office.
Relationships: Jack Donaghy/Kenneth Parcell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Errand Boy

Kenneth found it strangely unnerving when Liz left work early.

At first, he couldn’t understand his own reaction; if anything, he should be happy on those rare occasions that she went home at a reasonable time. Normally, she stayed at the office absurdly late, tired eyes locked on her laptop screen, gulping down a lonesome take-out dinner at her desk, finishing everyone else’s work for them, martyring herself for the job she cherished above her own comfort, health, and happiness. For her to leave early was unequivocally a positive sign: it meant that she had actually delegated some work (uncommon) or was running ahead of schedule (unusual) or had other plans (unheard of) or was finally taking a break for some much-needed self-care (unthinkable).

Nonetheless, Kenneth began to notice a pattern—a familiar swoop in his stomach, a telltale feeling of dread creep up his spine—whenever he saw her packing up her tote bag with dog-eared scripts and half-empty bags of chips while it was still light out. The sensation was inexplicable but unmistakable. 

For a while, he chalked it up to his affection for her (he loved all his coworkers so much that being away from them for upwards of 12 hours every night was nearly intolerable) and the eerie emptiness that settled over the deserted office when he was eventually left by himself.

The night that he finally figured it out, though, started like any other. After a day of the usual madcap mishaps and misadventures, the employees trickled out of the office, first the openly lazy, followed by the ones who still bothered to pretend they were trying. Kenneth was bustling about completing his usual page duty rounds when he spied Liz shrugging into her overcoat. A glance at his watch told him it was only 6pm. That familiar foreboding feeling stole over him. He watched her wind her scarf around her neck and felt an invisible scarf of cold panic tighten around his own throat. He suddenly felt unaccountably desperate for her to stay.

He strode up to her, using his well-honed powers of self-restraint to remain outwardly calm. “Ms. Lemon!” he chirped, sounding like his normal sprightly self. “Heading home for the evening?”

She beamed at him. “Actually, Kenneth, I’m heading to Spamalot!”

“Oh, how wonderful! Enjoy the show!”

“No no, not the Broadway musical, something much better: it's a Spam-themed restaurant. The city health inspectors are forcing it to shut down but they’re having one last night to sell off discount meat products and ol’ Liz Lemon is going to score _big time_.” She spoke reverently with a distinctly manic glint in her eyes. “They were supposed to close yesterday but Jack pulled some strings with the city council and got them to hold off one more night. Normally I wouldn’t condone such blatant cronyism, but I mean...there’s Spam at stake. Goodnight, Kenneth!” she exclaimed, oblivious to his distress, and hurried off.

Kenneth’s heart was racing and his knees were near buckling. Finally alone, he collapsed into a chair at the writers’ table to catch his breath. Right on cue, he felt his company-issued pager buzz on his belt. He held it up with great trepidation, knowing what message he was about to see:

_I need you. Come to my office._

Everyone around the office sent Kenneth on errands, regardless of whether he worked under them, even the janitors. These spontaneous chores were eclectic, ranging from the tedious to the exotic to the downright dangerous. They were the reason that Kenneth had taken to carrying on him at all times his passport, a holstered knife, a fake mustache, a wig, a shovel, a pack of iodine tablets, and a solar-powered headlamp. 

Mr. Donaghy’s errands were usually mundane and typically tended to be mostly business- and paperwork-oriented (although there had been plenty of times when Kenneth had been fervently grateful that he kept his mustache diligently waxed). But Mr. Donaghy occasionally assigned him one kind of errand that was...rather unique. No one else gave Kenneth this task. And Mr. Donaghy did it very infrequently, after seemingly random intervals. Kenneth had never been able to figure out the catalyst or the trigger for what made Mr. Donaghy want to request this particular favor.

Until now. Kenneth’s body had apparently realized the connection a long time ago, through some kind of Pavlovian conditioning, but his mind was only just now putting together the fact that Mr. Donaghy only asked him to do this special duty on nights when Liz was gone early…and thus it was impossible for her to come bursting into his office unannounced, as she so often tended to do, and interrupt them.

Kenneth didn’t bother messaging back. He didn’t need to. He knew Mr. Donaghy needed no assent, no acknowledgment; he preferred for others to carry out his orders swiftly and silently. He didn’t want to ask for anything, he wanted his needs to be met with wordless compliance and faithful deference. Kenneth’s agreeable nature was, of course, perfectly suited for the job, as were his attentive hands and his soft, yielding mouth. He was never one to complain about any aspect of his job, be it the long hours, the low pay, or the carpet burn on his knees. He simply performed his role eagerly and thoroughly the instant he was asked, like a good errand boy should.

Kenneth wasn't sure whether he felt disappointed or relieved to encounter no one else on his way up to the 52nd floor. Jonathan’s desk was unoccupied, he found, and so was Mr. Donaghy’s. No matter. He knew Mr. Donaghy would be back soon. In the meantime, he unbuttoned his blazer, folded it carefully, and set it gently on the couch. He loosened his tie and took a deep, fortifying breath. He neatened his hair, a gesture performed purely out of habit, as he knew it would be disheveled soon. He hitched his trousers and knelt down in the usual spot in the center of the rug. He let his hands rest on his thighs and settled in to wait patiently. 

As bizarre as it was, he found something undeniably comforting about this ritual. His poor nerves were still frayed, yes, but just the soothing predictability of the routine braced them a little. 

These nights were unpredictable—Mr. Donaghy himself was unpredictable—but there were a few patterns. Sometimes he was welcoming, almost friendly, which tended to signify it would be a milder night. Other times he was impatient, greeting Kenneth with a harsh rebuke for arriving late, no matter how prompt he was. Those nights were not so mild.

Kenneth knew that when Mr. Donaghy arrived, he might not address his employee right away. He might stroll into the office and brush right past Kenneth, paying him no more mind than if he were a piece of furniture, and sit at his desk. He might busy himself with some quiet paperwork. Or he might make phone calls, barking commands into the receiver, slinging barely-comprehensible business jargon over the line with practiced ease. All the while, his icy gaze would pierce Kenneth, not really seeing him. Seeing _through_ him.

Mr. Donaghy’s "errands" were often reciprocal in nature, many of his requests featuring a sort of mutual exchange between them. Yet even in his generosity he managed to be selfish. Things which he claimed to be for Kenneth’s sake were clearly for his own benefit. The paradox was terribly disorienting and Kenneth’s rising confusion always made him want to stop thinking, stop worrying, and just give in. After all, this was his boss, and wasn’t he being kind to even offer this, and hadn’t Kenneth rushed to his office willingly? And didn’t he like being a good employee, anyway? Of course he did. So what was the problem? 

The stress and uncertainty of those moments tended to make Kenneth’s mind go hazy. Amidst the fog he was distantly aware of his body reacting to his boss’s selfless yet self-serving attentions, which Kenneth could only interpret as more proof of his own complicity. The reactions would hit him without warning, inflicting upon him a whole new level of indignity, but they simply couldn’t be helped. He fought to maintain control, trying desperately to resist, but it was no use. When the unstoppable force seized him, all he could do was clamp his mouth shut against what was threatening to slip out.

It was frightening, what Mr. Donaghy had him do on nights like this. It was unnatural and unholy. It wasn’t merely outside his job description, it was expressly forbidden in the company policy; in fact it was forbidden by all standards of societal decency. And yet, poised there on the floor, ears straining for the sound of footsteps, the familiar pressure building within him, the usual ache suffusing his body, Kenneth was now cursed with the conscious knowledge that the scariest part of it all—the part that filled him with an unnamed, unspeakable dread which enveloped him at the earliest provocation and refused to release its grip on him again long after it was all over—was how much he wanted it.

The only thing worse than when Liz left work early was when she didn't.


End file.
